


for you, i'd steal the stars

by bellamyblakesbeard



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Bellarke, Best Friends, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Modern AU, Pining!Bellamy, Prompt inspired, Sick!Bellamy, Unresolved Tension, i can't lose you, idk - Freeform, ish, maybe? - Freeform, mid season one, more like, pining!clarke, season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamyblakesbeard/pseuds/bellamyblakesbeard
Summary: a collection of prompts, because we're gonna start 2018 off right.





	1. and when the clock turned twelve, I was erased from her memory.

Bellamy didn't mean to turn into one of those guys that just sulks in the bar, sitting by himself at the counter, and staring off into nothingness while making sure that there was more alcohol than water in his body, but here he was. And after his twelfth shot of vodka and his fourth glass of a straight sour whiskey, the bartender serving him was a little concerned. 

"So you're just gonna hang out here all night, throwing your money away?" She asks, and Bellamy just raises an eyebrow, not saying anything back, but instead choosing to take another long sip of his drink. "At least tell me why I have the amazing opportunity of keeping the bar open on the Monday night of New Years when I could be at home in bed." Bellamy squints at her nametag.  _Luna._  
  
"Are you Raven's Luna?" He asks, ignoring her request, and a faint smile traces her lips. 

"Yeah, I am. Good to know she talks about me to bar drunkies." 

Bellamy rolls his eyes and finishes his drink, making it a point to put the glass back down on the wooden counter with more force than necessary, and feeling a sense of accomplishment when he hears the thud. "I don't normally drink this heavy. At least.. not anymore." 

"Well then, what broke your perfect streak?" Luna sounds a little curious, but Bellamy has a feeling it's because she's bored and he's the only customer there. Like she said, it's the Monday after New Years' night. The world doesn't stop turning because the calendar turns its page to a new year, even though it might take a brief pause to celebrate. 

"Last night did, actually." 

"What, you don't appreciate the turn of a new year?" Bellamy rolls his eyes and glares down at the counter.

"It's not like time is an actual thing. It's just a concept. But.. Last night I lost the girl I'm in love with." 

"What did you do?" He turns his glare at her now, and clenches his jaw. 

"I didn't _do_ anything. When the clock turned twelve, she just... forgot who I was." 

 

* * *

 

 

"Are you going to the Blakes' for New Years or are you and Bradbury running off together and starting the New Year right by hooking up?" 

"Bellamy doesn't believe in time, you know this, Raven." Clarke picks her head up to see a freshly showered Raven brushing through her hair while standing in the middle of the doorway leading into her bedroom. "But yeah, I think the plan was to go to their apartment for the annual party." Raven disappears into her room for a few minutes, but returns dressed and her hair tied back into her classic ponytail. She launches herself at the couch, next to Clarke. 

"When  _are_ you two going to get together?"

"You know he doesn't see me like that, Rae." Clarke rolls her eyes, picking up her phone and scrolling through a useless social media app. 

"And you know that's total bullshit, Clarkey. Remember when he found out that you and Roan hooked up? He was  _pissed_." 

"That's because he didn't think Roan was a good person and he was watching out for me. Don't make it into something it's not." Raven scoffs.

"He was watching out for you because he wants you for himself, but you two are too stubborn to do anything about it."

"Okay, say that you're right. Why does he keep dating these other girls then? Gina? Echo? I look nothing like them. I'm not his type." Raven shakes her head again and stands up, a little slow because of her brace, but she doesn't need help anymore with it, so that's improvement. 

"Clarke, if he even had a type, it  _would_ be you. It's not like he was planning on marrying any of 'em. You wanna know why? Because he's waiting to do that shit with you. But hey, what do I know. Not like I'm a rocket scientist or anything," and now it was Clarke's turn to roll her eyes. "Oh wait. I am." She crosses her arms and glares down at Clarke. "I'm telling you, you have no chance of fucking this up. You just gotta go see that for yourself." 

 

* * *

 

 

Bellamy has been in her life for about six years now; her entire college career as well as the remnants of her senior year from high school, but that was more so because of Octavia than Bellamy. He has always been in the background of her life. A presence that she was made aware of, but didn't particularly care for. It was easy for Clarke to not pay that much attention to him. First she was busy with starting college, and then she was dating Lexa while majoring in Biochemistry and enrolling into pre-med. But when Clarke caught Lexa cheating on her with her ex-girlfriend Costia, and it shook her entire world around, Bellamy still stood there, his presence as solid as a mountain. 

And really, if someone ever asked her when she knew that she might love Bellamy Blake, that's probably when Clarke would say. Because at the moment in time, it seemed as if everything just sort of paused after falling apart, and only Bellamy remained in motion. It all cleared into focus, and it focused on him. But that was also the turning point in which he became her best friend, the one that she could always rely on. And she was happy with that. Or at least she thought she was.

It took him dating Gina to realize that she was _in_ love with him though. The two of them lasted for  _months_ and sometimes even now, Clarke gets a little worked up over it. She was so worried that he was going to pop the question to Gina, and even though she felt guilty, Clarke was immensely relieved when she inevitably broke up with him. He never told Clarke why, but any reason was good enough for her at that point. 

"Clarke!" A voice yells. Jerking away from her thoughts, Clarke scans around the room, her gaze landing on Octavia who's returning the look pointedly at her. "You gonna help or what? The party starts in three hours and we still need to get dressed." 

"Yeah, I'm coming," Clarke mumbles, letting her mind drift back to all the missed opportunities she could've had with the older Blake. 

And while she definitely wouldn't be opposed to it, Clarke just can't help but worry of kissing him, and then discovering that he wanted nothing to do with her to begin with. So she lets Octavia give her some complex task, and then another, and another. Time passes quickly, but while Clarke is getting dressed in Octavia's bedroom, she can't help but let her mind drift back to the man that is causing her so much trouble. 

Pulling the zipper of her shiny, silver dress up.  _Bellamy's hot breath on her neck, his hands at her hips, daring to go lower._

Brushing her hair until it turns glossy.  _His gaze sharp on her, his eyes dark and predatory._

Swiping her lips with a wine red, covering her eyelids in a shadow gray.  _Dirty whispers in her ear, meant for only him and her._

It leaves her wanting, but if she leaves Octavia's now, it'll be suspicious. 

 

So she stays. 

 

* * *

 

 

It didn't take long to get drunk, especially with their group of friends that dance around, and love to mix alcohol with other types that clearly don't go together. But before she knows it, Clarke is chanting down with her friends to the start of a new year, and they all have paired off except for her and Bellamy. 

But they're each other's pair. 

"10!" roars the crowd, as their gazes meet. 

"9!" They move towards each other. 

"8!" He gives her a smile, as his lips form the next number.

"7!" She gives him one back, while swallowing back her nerves.

"6!" A hand cups her face. Her arms go around his neck.

"5!" Close. So, so close, that they are sharing the same breath.

"4!" He looks hesitant, a quiet whisper of  _are you sure?_

"3!" A quick nod. 

"2!" He leans down and she can smell the cologne he uses when he goes on a date with someone that he tries to impress or when he tries to get laid. Neither have made it into his schedule as of recently. 

"1!" She reaches up onto her tip-toes and crashes their lips together. The kiss is thrilling and hot, and she loves the response she gets from him. It continues longer than the second, but when she pulls away, she offers a confused smile. Bellamy doesn't realize it at first, trying to lean his head down, to press their foreheads together as they reclaim their stolen air, but she pulls away before their skin can touch again. 

"I'm sorry," and she looks like she really is. To be fair, Bellamy was expecting rejection, but he really thought tonight was going to be different. But then what she says is a million times worse than what he thought it would be.

"Who are you?" 

 

* * *

 

 

"...and when the clock struck twelve, I was erased from her memory," Bellamy finishes. 


	2. the day the magic died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I remember vividly, the day the magic died” + “Maybe we could’ve been, in another world.” + whatever angst prompt I felt was deemed appropriate for this one.
> 
> or, the one where clarke goes through some life changing shit
> 
> btw, I rewrote the ending while listening to 'hold on' by chord overstreet & 'the night we met' by lord huron. so you totally can too, if you wanna suffer like I did.

When Clarke was a princess she was always against the thought of marriage. Voicing said thoughts to her mother, Queen Abigail promptly informed her independent daughter on the traditional custom of having to marry in order to claim her rightful place to the throne, even though she was the only heir. And as usual when speaking to her mother, little eight-year-old Clarke ran off, throwing a tantrum. King Jake found his daughter crying on her bed, and like any other father, he wiped away her tears and told her that he never wanted her to get married, and she agreed happily. They pinky promised on it and that was that.

Years later, though, at her fifteenth birthday ball, there were murmurs on when the princess would wed. Still not fond of the idea, but willingly to compromise for the sake of her people, Princess Clarke would stick up her nose in front of many of her suitors, not giving any mercy. She figured that whoever would be persistent enough to withstand her sarcasm and wit, and instead of belittling it, challenge it with their own, she would reluctantly agree to marry. But she still didn't have plans on doing such matters.

Three weeks before her eighteenth birthday, her mother had finally had enough of such nonsense.

Somehow, someway, the Queen had arranged a marriage that neither King nor Princess were aware of. Even though there was no consensual agreement from the father, no one dared to defy the Queen. She had chosen a warrior that Clarke hadn’t heard of— and she’s heard of many —but had apparently brought honor to The Blake family.

He was brought into the noble bloodline by a father who left before his son was even born, leaving behind a pregnant seamstress that struggled to get by on her own. His mother met another man by the time he was four. Two weeks after Bellamy’s fifth birthday, Aurora Blake announced she was with child once more. Eight months later, on a harsh February morning, Octavia became the newest addition in the Blake home.

Bellamy Blake renounced his rank when he turned fifteen years old even though he was expected to be married off for political arrangements. He understood why he should, even why he should want to do it to benefit his family, but his heart just wasn't in it. Instead, he fought for his people.

Countless of bloody battles, questioning missions on whether or not he would be able to punch his way home, and two life-threatening situations where he almost didn't make it home later, and honor was brought to his family's name whether he was a noble or not.

“Mother, you know I do not care about these men… these _suitors_ ,” Clarke corrects, “that you try to marry me to. If you are forcing me to marry him regardless, why tell me such a detailed report of him if I will have to deal with such nobility for the rest of time, anyways?” But that wasn’t really fair of her to say, since the princess knew how much her mother liked to gossip when it was of other people.

“Regardless of what you may think, _daughter_ , I figured the two of you would make quite a decent match.”

“Wait, have you actually met him?” Clarke questions. Out of all the princes and lords the queen has offered to her daughter, Clarke didn’t consider the fact that her mother might have actually made the time to meet each one of them. In fact, she knew that the queen hadn’t. She was usually too busy yelling at their servants or healers about the improper usage of their supplies. But, perhaps, Abby may have met a few here and there.

“I did,” her mother confirms. “He has a good heart, but he clearly did not have a say in the agreement. His father, not by blood, is rather… negative towards the older child, and wanted to use him to gain crops for the rest of the family. Maybe a few extra coins? Apart from that, though, the family seems to come from a struggled, but hard-working background. They seem loyal to the kingdom.”

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, knowing that there was no real way of being able to disagree with her mother on this. The wedding was already set in place, whether she wanted it to be or not. She may be able to delay it, though, Clarke thinks hopefully.

“Alright.” Clarke states simply.

“Alright?” Her mother questions. “Alright as in you accept this arrangement, or alright as in you will  try to undermine me anyways?”

“Yes,” Clarke smiles, before offering her mother a shrug. Abby rolls her eyes, not keen on humoring her.

“The wedding will be in a fortnight. There will be celebrations, of course, so things around the palace may be a little more hectic than usual.”

“Will you still be serving in the infirmary with Jackson for my training?” Clarke asks innocently. Abby tilts her head, considering it for a moment. The queen was one of the land’s best healers and she determined that the princess should follow. Medical knowledge was useful, people would never not need a doctor. What she wasn’t expecting was that her daughter would pick it up so easily and enjoy it. They bicker a lot, and her husband usually nulled each and every fight, but it was nice having something in common with Clarke.

“I will be there for a few shifts, but I’m not sure if your father would like to take the time laying out the feasts that are to be planned for. Especially since he hasn’t had much say on this matter and I am sure to hear of it for quite a while.”

Clarke simply nods in response and that is the end of their conversation.

Each night of that week a different valley in their kingdom hosts a feast in dedication to the princess and her beloved. Clarke has always enjoyed venturing out and engaging with their people, but at one point every night, she hits her limit with the _Congratulations_ and _We were beginning to worry that you would never marry! Who would ever take over the throne and lead us to victories!?_ and eventually draws a dark hooded cloak over her gown, bringing the hood up to secure her golden hair, and slips into the shadows. The princess stays on the outskirts of the party, always close enough that if someone had ever needed help, she could be there in a flash, but one night, she ventures further.  

She keeps pushing further into the shadows until she finds herself breaking apart from the end of the village. Clarke finds herself walking towards a bridge that connects the two separated valleys, lanterns hung high up above illuminating the scene around her. The lights glisten off of the surrounding waters, making it look a dark, murky, black. With the sunlight all of the waters look clear as day and more often than not, the denizens are able to see all of the fish that flow through the streams that Italy is made out of. But now, with such a dim source of light, it looked as if it were a portal from the underground, letting the demons that her people's folk tales are from, surface their world and raise Hell.

But Clarke knew that such thing would never be possible. She had inherited her hard-head and logically from her mother, leaving her father as the only storyteller in the family. While Clarke was a child though, there was nothing she loved more than her father to tell her a creepy, bone-chilling story that electrified her nerves for days on end.

When she gets about mid-bridge, Clarke finally stops walking, as if only now realizing how far she truly did go away. _It won't matter, all that much,_ she thinks. _They didn't notice my absence before, me truly being away now won't have much of an effect._ So she stays where she is standing, letting her hands drop to rest on the white-washed stones that built the bridge a long time ago.

On the path that winds through underneath the bridge, alongside the river, she catches sight of two young adults, a male and a female, and she smiles softly. They are walking towards her, not aware of her presence, locked in conversation. Both have similar, dark hair, though the man has unruly curls that drip down his forehead, nearly pass his eyebrows. They also have similar facial structure, and that is what makes the princess thinks that they are siblings after all, instead of lovers, although the dull ache stays the same, since she has been alone in that category as well.

The siblings have different skin tones, though. The sister's is a shade lighter, but still darker than Clarke's, while the brother is the darkest among them all. Clarke wonders how that is, but tucks the question away for later.

The sister soon points out the hooded figure on the bridge and the brother looks up immediately. Clarke bites her lip, wondering how strange and obscure she must look right now, but raises a hand, trying to offer a wave letting them know that she means no harm. The brother still seems tense, but the sister cracks a smile, waving back at the princess. Neither of them realize who she is, and while Clarke is grateful, she pulls down her hood for good measure, to truly see if they would even recognize her the least bit.

They don't.

Clarke finds it a little odd. Not many in the land have her ivory skin and her golden hair, but still relishes in the fact that neither of them know that she is royalty. The boy, though, seems to relax a bit more, but he's looking at her more strangely than he did before. Usually good at reading people, Clarke's a little thrown off, but she blames the lanterns for the odd shadows and glints.

“Clarke!” A distant scream is heard. The man’s face darkens for a second, but then she has to turn her focus away. A blur of familiar brown hair is seen as a girl near Clarke’s own age stops before she runs into the princess. “ _Clarke_ ,” she announces again, and Clarke’s attention is fully captured.

“What? What is wrong, Miss Samara?”  

“Your…” The lady pants. “Your father..”

The rest doesn’t register in Clarke’s mind. The only sounds that do are the thuds of shoes against worn pavement, the whooshing of the air that the two cut through, and the deafening sound of her own heartbeat vibrating through her entire body.

Her father. Of _all_ people. She knew the harsh reality of what she might run into, but Gods she hopes that isn’t the case. Clarke desperately wishes that this time, she will be wrong, and that the logical side of her is mistaken. But while both her head and heart are arguing over the possible situation she will run into, dozens of memories are flooding the princess’s mind. Flashes of being held up high onto his shoulders as they walk into countless crowds of their people; of running to him after he had spent far too long away from their home on his own missions and she had to endure weeks of only her mother.

Him comforting her, his silly, pointless jokes always making her feel better.

But the scene in front of her, when she finally, _finally_ , reaches the middle of the village’s square, is far worse than any she could have possibly predicted. Her mother is cradling her father’s head in her lap, and if that is the case, then all hope is already lost.

“No,” Clarke whispers, her throat feeling so tight it’s as if she’s being strangled. “No, no, no,” she cries, rushing towards her parents. Not caring for her gown, she falls to her knees next to her wounded father, already feeling the scrape of her knees from the rough material of the ground. His face is pale, paler than she is, and she already thinks that it’s too late.

Tears are beginning to stream down her face when his hand shakily grasps her own. Clarke’s brows furrow, looking down at the only person she has ever looked up to, with so much sadness shining in her eyes.

“Please, don’t do this,” she begs, as if he has a choice. “I am so sorry, father. Please, do not go.”

Jake Griffin, fearless leader of their kingdom, smiles a sad smile back at his daughter. “There is no need to be upset,” and Clarke can’t help the snort that comes from such a ridicule statement. “I love you, my daughter. Fight for what you believe in.” He looks over at her mother, the same smile still on his face. “Find love, like me and your mother found within each other.” Clarke knew their marriage was one of love, but it was still odd hearing it, after all this time.

Abby is holding onto his other hand, so tightly that her knuckles are white, almost as if she could bring life back to her doomed husband.

The one time both non-believers needed to believe in something just a little beyond their control, and they did, reality proved to them why that was a silly mistake to begin with.

The next week is a blur of events. They host a gathering, everyone in the kingdom mourning the loss of their adored king, but the festivities for the wedding are still upheld. _Too much has already been done_ , her mother had told Clarke. _If we push back the ceremony now, all of this work will have been for nothing. It will all be a waste, and we will not let our people suffer because the food has spoiled._

Clarke considers her father’s last words, to fight for what she believed in, and the Gods knew that she didn’t believe in having to marry in order to lead her kingdom. But the light that used to shine in her mother’s eyes has rigorously dimmed and she doesn’t seem to carry herself the way she used to. Abigail has gotten more strict and the sharpness in her tone is a little more merciless, but when it’s just the two of them, the grays in her hair and wrinkles in her skin seem to stand out a bit more. It’s an understatement to say that her mother is worn and tired, especially now having to carry the entire kingdom on her shoulders, so Clarke tries her best to not fight with her much anymore.

With little details, like when she’s asking Clarke which pattern she likes more for a tablecloth that will dress the head table during the after-party of the ceremony, Clarke will tease her lightly, picking an option she knows her mother will disagree with, an attempt at rekindling the old flame that used to enlighten the older woman. Sometimes it works, but drawing so close to the wedding, it loses its effect, so Clarke will let it go and hope that once the entire ordeal is over with, and the coronation has taken place, her mother will go back to the way she was.

Not that she misses the fighting that much, but the silence at the table during dinner is becoming unbearably heavy. Looking back, Clarke realizes that the only real time her and her mother ever did communicate, was through their fighting.

Dinner the night before the wedding, though, Abby insists on talking about Clarke’s husband-to-be.

“He had to reclaim his title, you know,” is how the queen begins the conversation.

Clarke chokes on her soup, setting the spoon down and grabbing a napkin to cover her mouth. “What?”

“Bellamy.” Her mother answers as if Clarke had asked if the sky was blue. “He had to reclaim his title as ‘Lord’ in order for him to be able to marry you. If he stayed as a common folk, I do not think he would have been able to. He did not seem pleased to regain his title, though.”

“If I was in his shoes, I do not think I would be either,” Clarke admits. She loved her people and she was anxious to begin her reign, but sometimes the weight was too much.

 _I bear it, so they don’t have to._ Clarke reminds herself.

The queen tries to start conversation a few more times that night, but with her mind on the wedding, Clarke begins to feel queasy. Dreams involving her father have blanketed her sleep and each one of them, no matter how it begins, ends a similar way.

Fight for what you believe in.

But as she lays down in her mattress, she watches her maids carry out the tub of now cold water that they used to bathe the princess in. She thinks about all of the workers in their palace and all of the people in the villages, even the criminals and scoundrels. And as Clarke is drifting off to sleep, far calmer than anyone should be before the night of their wedding, she has one last thought.

She believes in her people.

 

* * *

 

The next morning is far more relaxing than the princess thought it would be. She wakes up before the maids do and stretches a little bit, seeing that the sun has only now woken up as well. Before long, though, her maids come and disrupt the peace, a little surprised to see that Clarke was already up.

They don’t chat for long before they set to work on getting the bride ready. The maids brush through all the tangles and knots of the princess’ hair after they get her out of her bath and dried off. The gown that they dress her in is far more elaborate than any Clarke has ever seen and for a minute, she thinks that it’s a shame that this isn’t a real marriage.

It’s a shade off of a perfect pearl white, but it compliments Clarke’s skin color better than any other piece of clothing she owns. There are intricate designs for the lace involved throughout the entire midsection but instead of going down her stomach, it branches off to the sides, dripping down her hips instead. The designs even follow all the way down to the trail of fabric that drags behind as Clarke walks. Thoughts of tripping occur and knowing how clumsy she can be, Clarke is already warning the maids to get a good seat of her falling down the aisle instead of walking.

The maids leave her golden hair down, deciding that the sun will cast off of it and make it look as if it’s glowing, but begin to weave flowers into small braids that Clarke didn’t even notice at first. All of the flowers that litter her hair are smaller, paler versions of poppies. The pastel red looks vibrant against the gold and only as they are finishing up, placing any last details the maids think are necessary, her mother comes in, holding a small bouquet of Casablanca lilies, holding one off to the side.

“You are doing what is right for your people,” Abby starts, as if Clarke needs a reminder of what she is doing this for. Her mother is dressed for the ceremony as well; a royal blue and purple mashed together, bringing out the paleness of her own skin. “Your father would be proud of you,” she continues, her voice getting a little quieter but a smile making itself home on her lips. “He would have done anything to be here, with you.” She steps up to Clarke then, placing the bouquet off to the side, but still holds the one lily. “Whether it was an arranged marriage or not, he never wanted you to be alone, though he insisted on you finding someone yourself. But we both knew you are far too independent for that, and you would rather focus on others instead.” Abby tucks back a stray strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear, before placing the stem of the lily there to balance. “Regardless of this is the man you will stay with, or if you decide this life is not the one you wish for, we are both proud of the woman you have become.” Clarke gives her a watery smile and they embrace into a tight hug.

From that point on, everything seems to speed up. Before she knows it, Clarke finds herself walking with two guards to where the wedding will be, in the kingdom’s garden that overlooks one of the largest rivers in Italy, and when she looks up to see the face of her groom, she is taken aback.  It was the same man she saw the night of her father’s murder, the one that looked at her with that strange expression. Now though, that expression was nowhere in sight.

Instead, there was one of what seemed to be anger or resentment. None of the other guests seem to pick up on it, but as she walks to the arch, interwoven with the same poppies that cling to the back of her head, she can see the clench of his jaw.

“Princess,” he seems to snarl at her, quietly, for no one but her own ears.

Clarke ignores him. In fact, she practically pretends that he doesn’t exist. She listens to the man in front of her speak all of the nonsense that she grew up to not believe in, while also thinking that her mother could not have been more incorrect when saying that her and her prince were a good match. The princess speaks when she must but otherwise goes back to her own thoughts, hoping that the man beside her will be a better king than he is a husband.

After the wedding ceremony, Clarke hardly sees Bellamy. She catches glances out of the corner of her eye at the festival that is held for them, but that is all she gets. He tends to stay near the back, like Clarke did during their engagement parties, but sometimes he gives up his post and dances with the younger girl she saw with him that night. On the second night of their celebration, his sister goes up to Clarke with distrust in her eyes, hesitation in her movements.

“Octavia,” Clarke greets, as warmly as she could. Apart from what her mother told Clarke about the younger Blake sibling, Clarke overheard conversations involving Bellamy, speaking fondly of his sister. It was never to her, though, more so to the guards or the house servants. He has moved into the palace but into a separate room from his wife and despite all of her mother’s encouragements, Clarke refuses to be the one that makes the first move. She’s okay with a loveless marriage, she is, but if Bellamy would have at least tried to be civil, they could be on a different path.

But they’re not. Or at least, not yet.

“Princess Clarke,” Octavia responds, far less venom in her voice than in her brother’s. “After all the men in the land, and I am sure beyond the waters as well.. Why my brother?”

Clarke’s eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in confusion, just the slightest bit. “I did not choose him. My mother did since I told her that I did not wish to wed.”

Octavia’s eyes light up a little, but she withholds whatever she is thinking. Instead, she switches gears. “What about your father? I am sure he is glad that the kingdom has gained a new general.”

“The king is dead,” Clarke responds, her voice calm and steady. She raises her chin, refusing to let much emotion show now. “He died in my mother’s arms the night I saw the two of you.”

If Clarke thought that Octavia was just poking at old wounds by asking a question like that, she was wrong. The younger girl softens, her entire face shifting in response to the words the princess has spoken. “We heard that he was sick, but…” Octavia’s eyes shine and Clarke looks away, clearing her throat. “We did not hear of his passing,” she finishes. Still not meeting Octavia’s eyes, she feels a forced embrace and it takes her a second to realize that Octavia is _hugging_ her. But Clarke hugs back, feeling the prick of tears come to her eyes. She sniffles before pulling away, and Octavia gives her a sadder, softer smile. “I am sorry for how my brother has been acting. It is not who he truly is. He just… He did not wish to reclaim his title as ‘lord’, but my father forced him to. Our mother passed away earlier this year and since then it has been more difficult for our family and now that he is thrown into royalty, he is just not taking it well. Please,” and Octavia sounds desperate now, almost as if Clarke would overrule the marriage and divorce her husband so suddenly.

 _Well,_ Clarke thinks, _My people have done more for less._

“..be patient with him,” Octavia ends. Clarke gives her a smile, a nod, promising that she will do her best. The two girls interlock arms and walk through the gathering, occasionally grabbing pieces of food to eat or goblets to drink from.

Clarke tells her about living at the palace with Bellamy, how she has rarely seen him around but can recognize his voice or his footsteps within a few seconds. He doesn’t come to any of the meals, leaving it still as her and her mother, but if he left his room and just went to the kitchen, she wouldn’t be surprised. He prefers the house servants over them and it’s no secret.

Earlier that day while the sun was still out, she glanced outside one of the westside windows of the palace, and she saw him back in the garden, under the arch where they were wed, pawing at the poppies with a faraway look in his eyes. Octavia becomes a little sullen after Clarke shares that piece of information but the princess knows it is only because Octavia knows something relevant to it that she isn’t sharing.

“Spill,” she demands and Octavia is about to play dumb but they share a look, and the seamstress’ daughter sighs instead.

“The night we saw you. He said you looked familiar but could not place from where. All the same, though, he mentioned something about your hair, and I think that he likes, or liked, you. Seeing you at the bridge and seeing you at the wedding and _then_ realizing that you were the princess.. He was more angry at himself than at you. He was upset that he did not realize it before, that you would not be at your own party, but then I pointed out to him that he was not attending it either, and he went silent.” She looks like she has more to say, but in all likelihood Octavia has said too much already. Clarke just nods and changes the subject, not wanting the mood to be ruined for the night.

The days that follow their night spent together, Bellamy shows up around the palace more than he did previously and he even attends a meal once a day with the two royals. They don’t speak much apart from occasional questions with quick answers that ends the conversation instead of directing it, but it is better than from where they began.

Clarke and Bellamy’s coronation happens a week after they are married and when Bellamy is up on the podium, receiving his crown and is handed a scepter, he looks like he is about to throw up. But he kneels all the same in front of the almost-former queen who passes Jake’s title onto Bellamy with no emotion in her voice. Bellamy stands, claps and cheers filling the air, but he moves to the back, standing with his hands folded behind him, paying no attention to his subjects.

Clarke rises, stepping up onto the podium and smoothing down the folds of her dress. It was pressed perfectly, not a single wrinkle in sight, but nervous habits are a hard thing to control, especially now. The same man that placed a crown on Bellamy’s head and a scepter in his hand repeats the process with Clarke, who goes to her uncrowned mother, bowing instead of kneeling. Abigail announces Clarke with the title of queen, her voice hitching, which causes Clarke to look up. Her mother’s eyes are filled with tears but there is a radiant smile, in which she wears proudly.

Clarke moves to stand by her husband, her _king_ , and he looks at her as if he’s drowning and she is his only hope of salvation. She supposes she is, after all of the preparations that she had to endure for this moment and him having none, but after catching Octavia’s eye in the audience, there’s a quiet voice in the back of her mind whispering, It’s not quite that.

Hours after the ceremony, it is only them, and she admits, “You do not have to be here for legal obligations if you do not wish it. I can manage it.”

He snorts. “Like hell I won’t be. They are our people. We do this together.”

The relief in Clarke’s chest is overwhelming, but she just nods instead of saying something embarrassing. “Together.”

To her surprise, they make a decent team. They don’t communicate as clearly as they should, but it’s a work in progress. He speaks to her more freely and it’s safe to say that he finds some comfort in going to her. Regarding all hearings of laws, rules, or deciding on what crimes should face what punishment, they are both there, listening to the official statement and then seeking out a statement from the other party involved, speaking privately to each other before announcing their decision; but, with smaller, less life-changing decisions, he seeks her out for her opinion even if it is the most basic of questions. But she enjoys it. It’s nice to know that he cares enough to launch a one-man search party simply for the queen’s opinion, even when sometimes she’ll take the other side just so they have one of their less vicious arguments.

But with the brutal, non-filtered fights that the king and queen are now notorious for? Those are deadly. The first time it happened, all of their servants stayed where they were, watching quietly, not daring to make a sound or a movement. But after a while, hearing how harsh and cruel their voices can become towards the other, no one wishes to stay in sight. Sometimes, the servants will begin bets on how long until the next _Clarke versus Bellamy_ fight, others on how long the fight will last. One of the chefs won two hundred aurei by placing a bet for a week. And just as he predicted, neither Clarke or Bellamy spoke a word to each other for the next six days that followed.

The servants have begun to know when a fight is brewing as well. A slight change in tone from their queen and they are looking at one another thinking, Well, here we go, before leaving the room simultaneously.

Over time the king and queen’s fights simmer down a lot more than what they used to be. The two have become softer around each other and there are whispers among the servants that perhaps they are together like Queen Abby and King Jake once were. But at the end of each passing day, the two royals bid goodnight to the other and go their own way. One time, though, the servants caught the king sneaking his way to the queen’s room in the dead of the night, and she opened the door almost instantly, as if they have done this a thousand times already.

 

* * *

 

Four years have passed since Bellamy and Clarke were married and while the servants have their thoughts and their experiences involving the two of them, they still insist that it is just a business relationship. And then Bellamy takes his place as General of their army and is launched into a war.

The war involving the Sabines and the Albans is like nothing they have ever seen, but Bellamy is a leader and a fighter, and Clarke knows that he’ll prove his worth to all of their people. She just wishes he didn’t have to. It’s the first time he has ever had to lead their people into such a devastating battle with a good chance that they will not make it, but he does it fearlessly without a sign of hesitation.

Her army, her people, her Bellamy, leave at first light and she watches them depart. Regret washes over Clarke in waves, knowing that she should have told him that she loves him. It may be the last time she ever sees her partner and all she did was give him a lousy kiss on the cheek.

 _Don’t get so emotional on me, princess_ , he had teased. Bellamy kept the nickname that had been filled with hatred at the very beginning, and was filled with love instead, at the end.

 _Me? Crying over you? Never in a thousand eras_ , she had responded, not being able to hide her watery smile.

 _I will bring our people back_ , he promises. _They will come home to their queen_.

 _But will you?_ Something flashes in Bellamy’s eyes and Clarke thinks it was a mistake, but it’s too late to take it back now. Instead of telling him to forget what she had said, she raises her chin a little bit, cocks an eyebrow and tilts her head, waiting for an answer.

Bellamy smiles and cups her cheek. _I will come home to you._

And that was it. Clarke watched her husband climb onto an ebony colored horse, his horse, Clarke thinks as she remembers all of the riding they used to do together, and then spare her one last glance before directing the army to depart. He took his place in front of the crowd easily and Clarke can’t help but think that even if he wasn’t their king, he would have been a natural born leader anyways, even if it was just leading the rallies that litter the outside villages.

Life without Bellamy is harder now than it was before. Granted, she wasn’t queen before, but Clarke had a plan on exactly how she would be able to rule by herself and a schedule laid out on where to be at what time and who to consult with about what. But looking back at it now, she realizes that the plan would have never worked. Having the schedule laid out with Bellamy brought a steady balance of the logicality side as well as a more heartfelt time period through their day-to-day plan. In the mornings they would sit with one of their main assistants and would have breakfast while the servant rattled off their list of what needed to be done before noon. The two leaders would take an hour or two for strategy based moves and then move into their throne room, allowing their people to come in with concerns that they had gathered within the past twenty-four hours. In the afternoons, Clarke and Bellamy would split apart, Bellamy going into the villages to help with some of the orphanages around and to see his family, while Clarke went to the infirmary to see what needed to be stocked or who needed to be saved for the day.

After that, whatever events that happened throughout the day would then surface and the two royals would handle the problems separately. But they would always come back together at the end of the day, talking about one strange occurrence or another that the other had to deal with.

The head and the heart, their people would call them. A perfect balance.

And while Bellamy is away, she feels the dull ache in her chest where her heart would be, and she thinks how ironic it is. How she never knew how much of a hold he has on her until he leaves. But instead of locking up and being cruel like her mother was a long time ago, she tries to act more like Bellamy did. Does, Clarke forces herself to correct.

_He isn’t dead._

She still follows the same schedule but moves her infirmary time until later in the afternoon and instead goes out to the village, doing his daily trips instead and dropping by to say hello to Octavia. The addition to her schedule keeps her more occupied so by the time it has been a week and she hasn’t heard from Bellamy, it doesn’t even set in until someone asks her. And then her entire world crumbles. It’s harder for her to sleep at night with him gone. The only night that week she had slept, she had gotten a solid four hours into her slumber, before the nightmares plagued her again.

The servants would never say, but they heard her call his name.

Clarke sends a messenger and five days later, he returns with a letter of his own addressed to the queen, but as soon as she receives it, she hears yells of _They’re back!_ but whispers about the king.

“Clarke,” someone shouts, bursting open through the door, and she gets flashbacks of the last time she was in this situation. She doesn’t even ask what or who, Clarke just takes off as fast as her gown will allow her, and she sees him. Bellamy is laying on what looks like a table, sweat beading down his face and dripping off his jaw, and there’s blood.

“Bring him inside the infirmary,” she commands with a tight voice. Her heart leaped when she saw him, but then instantly fell into her stomach when she saw all of the blood. _There’s too much_ , she thinks. _There isn’t enough time._

The queen walks with the soldiers that are carrying their king and she looks down at him. His face is paler than it normally is and his freckles are impossibly dark against his skin. She doesn’t dare look down at his wound yet, it’s been wrapped as best as it could, slowing down the blood flow, but the gash on his chest is easily seen.

“Bell,” she whispers, carding a hand through his knots of curls. There’s dirt in the strands, and blood, but she doesn’t cringe away. As if she had magical powers that brought his soul back to life, his eyes flutter open. His lips twitch up into a weak smile.

“Hey, princess,” he musters. Tears form in Clarke’s eyes, but she holds them back.

“Just wait a little longer," she asks. "We're almost there." 

Bellamy's eyes soften, almost in sympathy, but he nods. They clasp hands, and Clarke doesn't even think of letting go. 

They reach the infirmary and she forces everyone else out except for Jackson, who even in his older age is still amazing with the correct occluders and clamps. Right now, Clarke wishes her mother was still around. Even though others have praised the queen for her medical skills, Clarke always thought that her mom was a better healer since she was able to control her emotions so effortlessly while in the middle of an operation. But with this patient, Clarke forces herself to remain calm.

After six ruthless hours, Clarke and Jackson are able to stabilize Bellamy, but they look at the blade that he was stabbed with and realize that there was a slow-working poison enlaced with the metal of the spearhead.

They determine that he has a while to live, not as long as Clarke would have liked, but at least a day or two. The color comes back to his face and he wakes up to Jackson talking to a crying Clarke, in which he immediately panics before being yelled at to lay back down. Jackson and Clarke determined that it might be better to not tell him. It’ll only make it harder later on.

But she does send for Octavia.

Bellamy questions why she’s there and why, after all these years, she finally accepts to live in the palace with them, but doesn’t fight either of them on it.

Things change between Bellamy and Clarke. Clarke is torn between distancing herself from him so it won’t hurt as much when he inevitably dies, or loving him completely, wholly, inevitably, like she thinks they would have been able to if given a different life.

Octavia convinces her to do the latter.

At first, Bellamy was confused to the sudden change of Clarke being more affectionate in public, but then he decides that it must have been because of how much time they have spent apart. Later that night, after dinner, they are sitting in the garden, near the arch in which they wed under, when she tells him how much she has missed him, how she loves him, how he is her best friend, and she does not want to lead without him. The dimness of the scene has no match for the fire that lights within his eyes.

Another sleepless night, but she didn’t have to fight the demons on this one.

The next morning, she awakes to the warmth that emits from Bellamy and she buries herself into him, pleased with the skin to skin contact. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Our people need us.”

“Our people can wait,” Clarke insists. Their forever is limited and she does not want to waste time. But life seems to have no problem continuing on, and when the sun rises and is shining directly into their room, Bellamy drags her out of bed and forces her to get on with their schedule. He’s more persistent than what Clarke’s inner healer would like considering his wound, but if Bellamy’s determined enough, nothing will stop him.

Their day plays through as if the war had never happened.

Bellamy falls into bed with her again that night, but when he finally falls asleep, it’s for the last time. Clarke wakes up before him again, and waits, patiently, for him to join her, but he never does.

“Bell?” She whispers, but his body is paler than usual. Clarke twists around immediately, looking at her husband worriedly, searching for _something_. But all she finds is emptyness.

“Bellamy,” the queen commands, and still, nothing. Her lip worries as she shakily raises two fingers to his throat, searching for the familiar rhythm of his pulse, even though she knows what she will find.

It’s eerily silent, instead, and Clarke feels betrayed.

“Bellamy, please,” she pleads and tears start to cloud her vision. Clarke licks her lips and cups his face with her right hand. Her other hand clasps his, squeezing it hard enough that she thinks that she _just might_ be able to squeeze the life back into him.

It doesn’t work. She doesn't know why she thought it would. 

Her handmaiden finds her sobbing over his lifeless body an hour later and tries pulling her away, but Clarke refuses to move. “I can’t leave him,” she argues, even though he has already left her. After all, there was nothing here for him anymore. She would leave too, if she could. “I can’t.”

Clarke was a fighter before Bellamy entered her life, but after his passing the fire that used to ignite her bones dies with him. He used to tell her tales of the Greek and Roman Gods when she couldn’t sleep, but she never thought of him as Prometheus, the god that granted humans with the gift of fire. That fire that burned so brightly in his eyes was never meant to last, but she wishes it didn’t have to go so soon.

Guards take his body away and she follows them to where they lay his body to rest. She picks up his hand again, desperately wishing for one more touch, one more smile, one more laugh, one more kiss, _one more._

 

* * *

 

 

She refuses to announce to their people that their king is dead but she thinks that they know. The kingdom has never been so quiet.

Clarke stays with his body for a good portion of the day until Octavia finally comes in and drags her out. They both grieve together and it’s _hard_. Harder than Clarke ever thought it would be, harder than anything else she has ever faced. It feels as if a wild animal had torn into her chest, ripping her heart out, and now all she can feel are the harsh, unforgiving claw marks that it has left behind.

She never thinks that it would, but eventually exhaustion takes over her body, and during those few hours of darkness where she has no control, all she finds is peace. 

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, Clarke is forced to make the announcement, and somehow she manages to drag herself out of bed, get dressed, and prep herself with pieces of parchment someone handed to her. While she is reading over some of the words, and a servant is braiding her hair in a way that it cascades down her back, Octavia fights her way into the royal bedroom. 

"Octavia," Clarke mumbles, trying to read one of the lines for a fourth time. 

"What are you even doing out of bed?" 

Clarke purses her lips, meeting Octavia's harshened gaze through the reflection of the mirror laying in front of the queen. "I have a kingdom to run. Me and him discussed that if something like this ever happened, we would carry on in ruling the kingdom for the both of us. It's what he would have wanted," but it's a lie. All of it. They never spoke on what one should do if the other died, mostly because they never even thought there was a possibility of the other one dying. 

"I know it's what he would've wanted,  _believe_ me I do. He was my brother." Her words sound practiced and Clarke looks at the younger Blake closer then. There's red rings around her eyes, her lips are pale, and her cheeks are puffy. Obviously she has been crying, just as Clarke has. But compared to Clarke's few years of loving Bellamy, Octavia has done it her entire life. There was never life without Bellamy for her. Bellamy  _was_ her life. "But that doesn't mean you have to jump right back into bossing people around and sending off more troops into unmarked territories, and rationalizing food, and everything else that you take care of."

"I'm making the announcement," Clarke responds, flat. They both know how she feels about this. If she  _wanted_ to do something like this, she would've done it hours after the king had passed. 

Silence is the only thing that responds to the queen. The servant continues working on her hair, though, weaving few flowers into the back of her head, before placing her crown in the center, making sure it's properly placed. Octavia broke their gaze when Clarke admitted to her what the plan for today was, but Clarke still flicks her eyes to the young girl for a few seconds again, before watching the process of making the queen look like a queen, and not like the woman who had just had her heart broken and lost, all in the same day. 

Octavia clears her throat. "I thought you two were going to last for a long time, you know. At least have a few kids. Maybe a real ceremony, just for us, you know? Somewhere quiet, like the garden, or even the rivers. But he would've been sold on the gardens. Then again, it's you. He would've married you in the dungeon if you asked." Clarke looks at Octavia, one last time, finally seeing the strong, young woman she was becoming. For some reason, Clarke hoped that she had some help in molding her. 

"Maybe we could've been, in another world." 

 

* * *

 

 

 "As I am sure you are all aware of, our king, has tragically passed away." Clarke has this speech memorized, forwards, backwards, up and down, any way one may wish it. And yet. She feels the need to go off of it, and speak from her heart. This action isn't about using her head, no. There is no strategy, no winning, nothing to gain. The only thing that may even come from this is closure and peace, after time spent mourning.

She needs to use her heart. But she will continue to need both, as she is ruling for two. "My husband," she continues, smiling sadly. Clarke isn't speaking from some balcony high up, or a podium. This is not a time where her citizens need to be reminded that she is their sole leader. They need to know that she is just like them; lost and confused, but desperate to move forward. "He--  _Bellamy,_ " and a hush is waved among the crowds, all children's whispers silenced as they hear of their beloved storyteller. "Bellamy died a noble death. He died fighting for us, his  _people_ , to carry onwards. He did his hardest to make sure every one of our soldiers," she waves to a separated area of the crowd where there are obvious warriors standing there, almost looking ashamed, "came home to us, came home to their  _family_ ," and she chokes on the word. Quickly she raises her wrist to her mouth, forcing her eyes close. 

 _Breathe_ , Bellamy's voice whispers to her.  _You can do this._

There's pressure on the hand that is still hanging by her side, and she chances a glance to her right, seeing who's there. Octavia is there, and she's crying, and for some reason, it makes Clarke think that it's okay for her to cry, too. This is a big thing that her kingdom has to go through, and they have to know that crying and mourning isn't weakness. Showing that you miss someone you love is not weakness. Loving someone that is gone, is not weakness. 

Clarke squeezes Octavia's hand, and offers a shaky smile as a tear rolls down her cheek. Octavia nods and returns the smile, before nudging her on. 

"Bellamy ruled selflessly, although not flawlessly. He loved every single one of our subjects, and he loved every simple task that some of you may not think twice about. He took precious time of the day to come into the village and do things that no other ruler would even consider of doing. Bellamy's spirit, soul, and heart, was the magic of this kingdom. And yesterday, will be forever known, as the day the magic died." 


	3. I never stood a chance, did I?

To be fair, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he walked into school the first day and felt eyes on him. Bellamy’s been dealing with this since he was ten years old, and while he has been through remission four times, it has never lasted longer than those five years doctors pray for. But it’s alright. He has been okay with this for as long as he can remember and it’s just a part of his life now.

There’s not a better way to describe the bone cancer that has made itself a permanent resident in the now 17-year-old boy, anyways.

At the end of each school year Bellamy doesn’t attract that much attention anymore aside from the occasional mention of him being a part of the school’s wrestling team and how he placed, and he hopes that’s how it stays when he comes back for the following year. It never is, though. Every year there is a new group of freshmen and they give him a sympathetic look, because _of course_ they know who he is; a look that he has been receiving from the kids he went to school with since the day it was announced at his elementary school in the fourth grade. It is what it is.

But _man_ , does it amuse him when a teammate hesitates to bump shoulders with him, only for Bellamy to shove right into the opposing player and earn a surprised grin and respect in his eyes from him. It gets more bearable after that, even though he must promise the other players that it’s okay to hit him and that if anything ever hurts he’ll speak up. Bellamy promises, even though in his perspective it’s challenging to mark off when something hurts because of another guy or because of _cancer_. But what can he do, really? So, he usually keeps his mouth shut.

That plan has only backfired once. And it was the only year he tried to play football, okay? Lean off.

But it was rough.

A wrong play, the wrong time, someone not marking their person. It is impossible to have a recipe like that and expect something besides trouble. But _god_ , did it scare everyone.

“Bellamy!” A distant shout followed by clapping of hands against hands, hands against backs. Shared smiles, warmth spreading through the chests of separated friends who have finally reconciled. “Good to see you’ve made it through another summer,” some shorter, darker, male chirps. _Miller._

“Always great to see you too, asshole,” Bellamy manages through muffled laughter.

The rest of the first day back is like that. Warm greetings, horrible jokes, shared laughter. _God_ , did Bellamy miss school more than he realized. He missed his friends and even though his schedule doesn’t hold the same teachers as the previous year, he feels like he can easily befriend this year’s bunch as well.

 

* * *

 

At first, the days pass by slowly and Bellamy can’t understand why. He enjoys the material and actively participates in the activities the teachers assign, but there’s just something missing. And it isn’t exactly hard to place what is gone, but it’s still a sore subject and he can feel the ache in his chest when he even thinks of her name. That leads to him picturing her blue eyes lighting up when someone says a statement she obviously agrees with or is passionate about; the curl of her lip when she tries to hide a smirk, and gives up, because she doesn’t care enough if someone _does_ see it; the lighter, more delicate, tone of her skin; the slight frizz of her hair even though there was no breeze.

A bell rings and his body moves, as if on autopilot, and if anyone told him that someone up above was listening to his thoughts, he would have believed them, because as soon as he leaves his classroom, letting the door shut behind him before anyone else can push it back open, Bellamy bumps into another person with more force than he would have liked to admit. He glances down, an apology already on his lips, before doing a double-take, trying to cover up the fact that he looks like a damn fool.

“Clarke,” he greets, and even he winces. His voice sounds strained, but she isn't offended. _Of course not._ Clarke, instead, hides her immediate shock like a pro, masking it with one of friendliness instead.

“Bellamy! I haven’t seen you in so long!” Her tone is one of joy, but it’s practiced. He knows that it sounds a little too forced, even if she would never admit such a thing. Before he can reply again, the rest of the crowd is pushing them forwards and they’re walking; side-by-side, in-tune with the other like they were once before, in what seems like a life-time ago. The two are leaders of the noisy crowd behind them, even though it’s not a strain for him to hear her. Hers is the only voice that he wants to hear and he’s racking his brain for jokes that he knows will make her laugh, but he comes up short, disappointment filling up a small part of his chest.

“It’s been quite a while, yeah,” he agrees awkwardly, feeling like an idiot. The entire summer has come and gone, the only proof of the two once best-friends even talking being a lousy five test message conversation at some point mid-break. They walk to the same hallway and he takes the lead, pushing the heavy-metal door open with one hand, letting her go in front before trailing behind. Her steps slow and Clarissa looks hesitant to leave, her head turning in the direction of her next class, before looking back at Bellamy.

“It was nice seeing you again,” another one of her pleasantries, and Bellamy can’t help but wish she would stop acting like they were never anything. “You can talk to me, you know that right? There’s no reason to be a stranger.”

 _I never wanted to be,_ Bellamy thinks. _Not after I’ve known you._

Instead, he offers a smile, a tilt of his head. “Never am, Clarke.”

She smiles in response, her eyes lighting up the way they used to when they were together, but she starts walking away. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Clarke disappears and blends into the crowd of dozens of students, and Bellamy turns to walk away, letting his feet lead him to his third period class.

This class goes by even slower as he plans out possible conversation starters and two periods later, when the bell rings, marking the end of fifth period, he sees a flash of familiar blonde hair that no one else seems to hold. The golden hues that shine brightly in the sunlight are what convince him that it _is_ her and when she turns at the sound of her name, he can’t help but smile. Their eyes meet, and she waves.

The smile stays for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

“ _Blake! What the hell are you smiling about?”_ His cross-country coach yells at him later. _“Give me another mile!”_

Even through the mile that caused his knees to ache and his bones to burn, he couldn’t shake the feeling of getting Clarke to smile at him again.

 

* * *

 

After that, he begins to see Clarke around the school more often throughout the day, causing him to wonder why it took him three weeks to find the golden-haired girl to begin with. Hell, she was in his first period class, all the way up in the front row even though she had her thin, gold rimmed glasses hanging off the tip of her nose. (Bellamy has had to physically restrain himself from pushing them up to the bridge and pressing a kiss to her forehead on multiple occasions).

During roll-call, instead of playing on his phone like normal, only because it was already dead, and Bellamy would have to wait until second period to charge it, did he hear the heart-wrenching sound of _Clarke Griffin_ over the not-so-quiet whispers of their classmates. His head shoots up from the back of the room, overlooking the computer monitor that sits at his deck, and while there are a few snickers, he can see _her,_ and she simply raises her chin, proudly claiming her namesake with a simple _here_ , and a smile crosses his face.

 _Brave princess,_ he can’t help but think. The teacher moves on through the list, but he watches his golden girl as she pulls out various notebooks, unlocking her computer in the blink of an eye and getting straight to work.

“Bellamy Blake,” the same voice calls, and as he calls back a response, he keeps his eye on Clarke. She doesn’t seem to process his name though, already tuning out everyone else in their environment while burying herself deep into her studies.

He looks at her row, noting that on her left side there is an empty seat, but she still has a seatmate on the right. When the teacher isn’t looking, Bellamy quickly grabs his items and sneaks up to the front. He’s sure that if the teacher saw him, she wouldn’t say anything anyways, but still. It feels like one of those things that he shouldn’t really ask about, even though there’s no reason for him to be denied.

Clarke doesn’t notice him at first, and he takes no offense to this. Bellamy simply logs into his own computer, checks some grades, looks at assignments that he’s sure he can bullshit if he does them now, but would rather put off until later when he would have a little motivation to try and earn a 100. He even checks his email, before he can finally see her pick her head up out of the corner of his eye. She looks at him, eyebrows furrowed for a minute as if trying to figure out a puzzle that someone had just thrown in front of her.

“Bell?” Her voice is quiet, a little scratchy from not talking since attendance, and he can’t hide the grin that curls his lips.

“Alive and well,” and she snorts. His heart flutters and somehow his face isn’t cracking from how wide he’s smiling.

“I wasn’t aware that we were lying to each other now,” and the familiar tone of her teasing washes over him. Everything about her is so _familiar_ and he misses her. He remembers a time where they were inseparable, where nothing ever had to be familiar because he never knew a time without her once he had her, or at least a time that he wanted to exist in.

He has almost claimed this to some of his friends, but he’s aware of what they would say in response.

 _You know you’ve only known her for two years, right?_ Miller would ask.

And Bellamy’s response would be that life hadn’t truly begun until that minute in lunch when someone pushed a 5’6—small, at least to him—girl into him, making her drop half of her tray before saving the rest. She wasn’t being bullied, but that was easily not the nicest interaction Clarke has ever had.

Either way, Bellamy helped her pick up what was salvageable and toss away the rest. A joke was made by his friends and she retorted with one of her own. They instantly clicked and ended up spending the rest of lunch together. A few of their classes overlapped and it wasn’t long until they moved their seats to be closer to each other, both rather sitting by someone they knew partially instead of having to make new friends in a class they would be out of by the end of the semester. Although they wouldn’t speak that much to each other just yet, they both found a comfortable silence within the other, and they figured that was good enough.

Three months later, Clarke learned of Bellamy’s cancer and she smacked him in the arm with a thick, hardcover Biology book.

_I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!_

He shrugged with a shoulder, not meeting her eyes. It was nice having someone that didn’t treat him like a china doll every time they were around.

_It never came up in conversation._

But to his surprise, she didn’t act that much differently from before. Clarke became fiercely protective of him, but she was still _Clarke._ And by the end of the school year, despite the other friends she had made, Clarke had always redeemed him as her best. The following summer, though, they didn’t talk much; hardly at all, really. But as soon as school came back in session and they saw each other daily again, it was as if no time had passed and they picked up right where they had left off.

Sophomore year was a different definition of long, disappointing, and uneventful. The two best friends were companions through the hallway, sharing five of the same classes, so it _would_ make sense for them to just walk together for the brief four-minute break. Looking back at it now, though, Bellamy can understand how it may look to someone that didn’t know them. Two friends in the stage in-between friends and something more, but he had never thought of it. It wasn’t that Clarke wasn’t—isn’t attractive, the thought had just honestly never crossed his mind.

But then someone—a stranger, actually—brought it up to him, and then it seemed so _obvious_ that Bellamy couldn’t understand how he never thought of it before, and it’s like a damn switch was flipped in his brain. Because when he catches sight of her next, his heart flips, seeing the golden strands of hair, the mole above her lip, the glowing blue of her eyes, and he wonders if this is what Adam felt when God casted Eve down to be his companion.

He has trouble thinking about anything else for a while. Every small touch that is shared between them now: a hand on a shoulder when they’re trying to gain the focus of the other; the brushing of hands while walking to class; propping a foot against the other’s desk’s base, overwhelms him with the feelings of butterflies. Every shared look between the two is compromised, too, for him. And for a little bit, he’s really hoping that someone brings up the same conversation for her, and she if forced to open her eyes and realize the shared connection, too.

But she never changes. The same fondness she holds for him still shines brightly in her eyes, she makes the same cheesy jokes, her hands never lingering a second, a beat, too long.

 _Okay, but hear me out on this one, Bellamy. What if she has felt this way about you since day one?_ For a brief second, Bellamy _does_ consider it. But then the thought seems too bizarre and he dismisses it.

 _People like her don’t like people like me_. Miller scoffs, rubbing a hand down his face as he tries to comprehend his friend’s stupidity.

 _You know how ludacris you sound? You’re best friends. There must be_ something _there if she chooses to stick around._

“I would never lie to you,” Bellamy finally replies, before tacking on, “princess,” at the end. Her nose scrunches up in response, but in retaliation she turns back to her monitor, resuming her assignments as if she was ignoring him. “Oh, so you still don’t like being called princess, do you princess?”

She puffs out a cheek in response, but remains silent, only producing small _taps_ from her keyboard.

It was a running joke within their entire student class, but while everyone else dropped it, he stubbornly held onto it.

 _The way I should’ve held onto her,_ Bellamy can’t help but think bitterly.

He slides her a small foil package, _bite-sized rice-krispy,_ it reads, and a small smile shines from her face. Bellamy counts it as a victory. The rest of the class period goes by as normal, but not the normal he has been forced to adjust to. The normal that used to exist, and he embraces it wholeheartedly.

It seems to last throughout the rest of the day. The rest of the week, even, and he is ridiculously grateful and caught up in it, that he misses the announcements for the school’s spirit week, and the fact that their homecoming is approaching.

For a minute, he’s grateful that Miller bugs him about Clarke as much as he does. “So, I was thinking that me and Monty—” his friend begins, but Bellamy is too excited to let him finish.

“Alright, man! You finally did it, huh? You fought him enough to convince him to go out with you. What finally did the trick after two consistent years of nothing?”

“I don’t think you’re one to be talking man, not with how long it took for you to finally get with Clarke,” he chuckles.

Bellamy’s first response is to laugh, but then the words sink it. “Wait... What?”

“Yeah, man.” Miller still has a hint of a smile on his face, before realizing that Bellamy had no clue as to what he was talking about. “Wait, you’re not with her yet? Dude, I thought you finally got the balls to ask her to homecoming. I was going to ask if you two wanted to grab dinner with me and Monty tomorrow before the dance.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s too late to buy tickets, isn’t it? Fuck! Forget that! I can’t even _ask_ her now. She probably isn’t even going, and if she _is_ then she probably already has a date. It’s fucking _Clarke._ ”

“First of all, you know for a fact that whether she had a date, she’d be there. She likes those things, doesn’t she?” Bellamy bobs his head up and down so fast, Miller is a little afraid that he’s going to break his neck. “Second of all, I’m pretty sure she isn’t going with anyone. The only guy I’ve ever seen her even talk to was you, and any guy that _does_ try, knows he won’t get that far _because_ of you.”

Bellamy has so many arguments to try and convince Miller that _no,_ there is _no way_ Clarke, his Clarke, could possibly feel like that about him, but there’s _no fucking time._

“Is there even still time?” He asks against his better judgement.

“There’s never a better time than the present,” Miller shrugs in response.

Bellamy claps him on the shoulder and sets off, a man on a mission. Distantly, he can hear Miller yell, “I better be the best man at the wedding!”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy buys his ticket, but he doesn’t find Clarke.

 

* * *

 

By the end of Bellamy’s second cup, he realizes that someone spiked the punch. He doesn’t particularly mind, but the loudness of the music and the strobe lights that flash angrily at him are not helping his situation. Miller finds him about thirty minutes in, dragging him to the dance floor. Bellamy isn’t sure what takes over him as he throws his limbs around in an attempt to dance and catch up with his best friend, but soon enough he finds a flash of similar gold hair that he thinks belongs to Clarke. The problem is that he can’t really remember.

Since he was diagnosed Bellamy never considered drinking or smoking like the average rebellious kids of his generation, and to be fair he didn’t tonight either, until it was too late. But he likes to think that the alcohol running through his veins is what grants him the courage to follow the shining of blonde hair and get the girl to himself.

She looks like Clarke, but he’s positive she isn’t. It causes his heart to thud sorely in his chest, even.

They find themselves bracing another batch of the horrid punch, sitting outside in the cool, crisp, October air. He’s not sure what he’s saying, but it gets her to giggle and laugh, and warmth spreads throughout his entire body. She shivers, and he offers her his jacket, and after he drapes it across her shoulders, their noses brush against the other.

The girl sucks in a breath, but he pushes forwards, pressing his lips to hers soundly.

The kiss is warm and light. Her lips are soft, and he’d love to imagine that’s what Clarke’s lips are like.

As per usual, as soon as he thinks of her, he can’t get her out of his mind. Ten minutes of this, his guilt finally catches up to him. He hesitantly takes his jacket back, combing his fingers through his hair and making it stick up in weird directions. “I’m sorry,” he begins, in a harsh and hurried breath. “I can’t do this. I’m... I’m in love with someone else, and I won’t do this.”

The girl looks as if she’s been slapped, and a sad look comes over her face soon after. There’s a wistful look in her eyes. “I never stood a chance, did I?” She asks with a sad smile. “I hope it works out for you two,” she manages to whisper, and he is so _sure_ that it sounds like Clarke, but before he can truly process it through the blur of an alcoholic mind, she’s gone, leaving him with the howling of the wind.


	4. whatever side keeps you alive

Clarke was fucking _pissed._ Despite her protests and her pleas of getting him to stay with her, Bellamy went off on some hunting party with Miller, Harper, and one of the other delinquents. That was six _hours_ ago, and not even a single radio call to check in.

 

She was so pissed that she didn’t even realize how hard she was pulling on Raven’s set of stitches across her forearm until the other woman scowled. “Ease up a little, doc,” Raven mumbled. It pulled Clarke from her thoughts enough for the tension to drop from her shoulders and to bite her lip as she finished.

 

As soon as the last stitch was in place and there was a quiet _snip_ as the line broke off, Clarke heard voices from outside the medbay. _About damn time,_ she thought as she quickly cleaned up her station and hustled outside towards the front gates. There was a group forming around the entrance but she quickly pushed her way through. Miller had a burlap sack slung over his shoulder, while Harper and the other boy carried turkeys in each hand. Despite the upcoming seasonal change, today’s hunt was a good one.

 

For some reason, though, the queasiness that was sitting in Clarke’s stomach didn’t fade. She still hadn’t seen Bellamy and while everyone else was already discussing the different ways of roasting the turkeys for tonight's dinner, she was still waiting for her co-leader to appear.

 

A solid minute and a half later, she watches him with crossed arms over her chest as he drags himself through the gates. He offers a smile, but she just cocks her head off to the side as if to say _Are you fucking kidding me right now?_

 

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Come on, princess. You have to admit I made the right call today. You don’t get to be pissed. I caught most of what they carried in,” he points out, but she just shakes her head. Her arms fall to the side and for a moment she thinks about fighting him for leaving her today. But today was _exhausting_ , having to burden the weight of the entire camp on her shoulders, somehow splitting her time between both the medbay and whatever projects and assignments Bellamy normally takes care of, as well as providing assistance to any of the kids and making sure everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing.

 

“I’m not pissed,” she deflects. Clarke was _definitely_ pissed but…

 

“I’m hurt,” she admits, in a quieter tone that she hadn't truly meant to say.

 

That catches Bellamy’s attention and his entire face changes, but she turns away. Clarke’s about to walk off when she mumbles, “Do whatever the hell you want, Bellamy. That’s what you always do anyways.”

 

“Clarke,” he says immediately, reaching for her. His hand catches her upper arm, but she recoils.

 

“No. I’m not doing this here.”

 

Bellamy huffs something among the lines of ‘why can’t you ever let anything be easy, princess’ but drags her to the medbay. Clarke reluctantly follows, not really having a choice, she knows, because Bellamy isn’t the type of person to just allow the conversation to drop like that.

 

“What the hell is your problem, Clarke?” He asks once they’re in the medbay, the closest thing to privacy that they’ll get nowadays. His voice is softer, more open and vulnerable now that they’re by themselves. There's no teasing, and if she wasn't so worked up she would note the genuine concern.

 

But she doesn't. 

 

“What’s _my_ problem?! What the hell is _your_ problem, Bellamy?!” Her voice is rising and judging by Bellamy’s facial expression he certainly didn’t expect this to turn into one of their infamous screaming matches. “I’m not the one that ventures off into grounder territory every chance I get! I’m not the one who thinks that since the grounders said I can’t do it, I have to go and prove myself to everyone that I _can_ do it, and fight whoever gets in the way! I’ve been doing nothing but try to keep us alive, and that includes at peace _with_ said grounders!--”

 

“So you’re on their side? We should just pack up and move somewhere else, despite this being our home?! You realize that I’ve been keeping us alive too, princess,” and it’s practically a snarl. He hasn’t said her nickname with that much venom since the first time they got within two feet of another, “you’re not always the badass hero you think you might be.”  

 

“This isn’t about sides--”

 

“I can’t believe you, Clarke. What’s next, you gonna lock me up? Put Miller and Harper on Guard duty with me as their post to make sure I can’t le--”

 

“YOU COULD’VE DIED!” Her face is red and her hands are in the air and she is _screaming_. His entire face goes slack. His jaw falls open a little bit and she can see his tongue dart out quickly to lick his chapped lips.

 

The silence is deafening. 

 

She takes a step closer, a small shake of her head. Clarke lowers her voice, and she can’t quite meet his eyes, but she knows how she must look to him. Desperate, a clear plead in her own eyes. She watches his Adam’s apple bobble. “You could’ve died,” she whispers. _And I can’t do this without you. I can’t lose you._ “The peace treaties haven’t settled yet, and you know damn well that we are not leaving this place, this… our _home_ ,” she amends.  “And those boundaries can only do so much for so long...” Clarke fights off a shudder.

 

“I could have lost you. So if you want to make this about _sides_...” A pause. She can feel Bellamy’s eyes burning into hers, but she still hasn’t made contact. Clarke licks her lips as she chases the flame of courage to allow her to finish this difficult proclamation.

 

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it?

 

“I’m on whatever side keeps you alive.” She finally looks up and makes eye contact with him, and immediately regrets it. Her eyes start to tear up and she hisses at herself, raising an arm to wipe at her eyes angrily, as if they betrayed her. But when she lowers her arm, allowing it to dangle at her side again, Bellamy is closer and pulling her in for an embrace.

 

His arms are wrapped firmly around her frame and he buries his face into the crook of her neck. It startles Clarke, only for a moment, but then she sinks into the hug and allow the tears to come.

 

“You don’t have to worry about losing me, princess,” he mumbles into her hair as he strokes soothing patterns across her back.

  


“I’m not going anywhere.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> have a prompt you'd like see written? message me @princessofassguard on tumblr.


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